Strangers
by DaphneRunning
Summary: Ivan wants to reach out to him, this strange, pale, cold boy.


The girls all love him, this strange, cold, pale boy. They follow him around, wear glasses just like his, scream his name when he passes the dorms. He carries himself straight and tall, but rigid, as if he'll break if pushed too hard. The girls crowd around him, talking about his hair, showing off the jackets that are so like his, invading his personal space.

Ivan sort of wants to yell at them to leave him alone. Can't they see he's shy? Can't they see he's frightened?

The only class they're in together without Edward is Applications, because Ivan failed it last year and Barnaby has never taken it before. Ivan gets to class first, making sure to choose a seat next to everyone's idol.

For nearly half an hour, Ivan tries to work up the courage to whisper, "Sorry about them." He can't. Barnaby will think he's just like them, just like the ones who only see what they want to.

Instead, because he's afraid and it sounds easier, he passes a note folded into a tiny swan.

_You must get really tired of everyone following you around all the time._

Barnaby looks at the note as if he's never been passed one before, as if he's not sure what he's supposed to do. He looks over at Ivan, confused.

_Open it_, Ivan mouthes, miming unfolding the paper.

Barnaby looks at him, looks at the little swan, and shakes his head. He pockets the origami, then turns back to the teacher.

The next day, Ivan writes, _Why don't you want to talk to me?_ on a penguin made out of college-ruled paper.

Barnaby pockets it without ever looking inside.

The third day, Ivan passes an unfolded note. Barnaby doesn't even look at it before wadding it up and throwing it in the trash.

Ivan tries writing on the outside of the little animals, but it's awkward, and squashes them. He gives it up. Obviously Barnaby isn't interested in passing notes. It's a shame; every time his fingers brush Barnaby's pale, cold fingertips, a shiver runs up his spine and his heart beats hard.

Edward sees him looking out the window one day, right as Barnaby passes by. He grins, tickles Ivan until he admits it, and gives his cheek a pinch. "Tell him."

"Are you crazy? No!"

"Maybe I'll tell him."

"Edward!" Ivan's jaw drops, aghast. "You wouldn't!"

Edward wouldn't, of course. He's a good friend.

Not so good that he doesn't suggest "kissing practice," but good enough.

Ivan sees the girls following Barnaby around, and hopes he isn't becoming one of them. They're so silly, copying his looks, trying to replicate his speech pattern—as if they actually cared about why he was so stiff, so shy, so reluctant to talk. Ivan was the opposite. He cares, wants to know all the time, but has no idea how to talk to him, pretty cold Barnaby.

A week after their fingertips first brushed, Barnaby passes Ivan a note. It's the swan he'd folded, the first animal he'd made for Barnaby. Looking carefully, he notices that the creases have been re-done, the entire animal un-folded and re-folded.

He opens up the paper, and finds a neat, hand-written response.

_Yes. I get tired of it. But that is what we are supposed to do as Heroes, right? We have to let strangers love us._

Ivan's never thought of it like that, and the idea sends chills up his spine. He steals a look at Barnaby, and the older boy's mouth twitches—just a tiny bit—in what just _might_ be the beginning of a smile.

Ivan passes him more notes, flooding Barnaby's pockets with tiny paper creatures. Every day after, he gets one back with a response, always meticulously re-folded along the same lines Ivan made.

Two months later, Barnaby invites him back to his single room after class. He's awkward, cold to the touch, and painfully unsure of what to do with his hands when he kisses Ivan. Ivan leans into it, a thrill running up his spine at the thought of kissing someone for real, not just for practice—and of having it be Barnaby.

When Barnaby smiles at him after that, it's like the reflection of light on water, pure and shy and sparkling and hidden from everyone else.

Ivan loves being together in Barnaby's room over the next few months, as tentative kisses turn into hesitant caresses, as everything turns into frantic stroking and kissing and gasping, and Barnaby doesn't look so cold when he's flushed from his cheeks to his toes as Ivan sucks him off. He's sweet and gentle after, embarrassed to be so happy, and Ivan wants to make sure the older boy stays happy forever.

He doesn't tell Edward about the touching. His redheaded roommate is jealous enough that he's got another friend, though he pretends he isn't.

Ivan stops knowing how to tell Barnaby "No." He stops wanting to. Barnaby asks, stilted and nervous, if they can go out to a restaurant.

Of course Ivan says yes.

He asks, hesitant and halting, if they can go a little farther in bed.

Ivan could never tell him no.

Barnaby asks, blurting out the sentence before he loses his nerve, if Ivan loves him.

"Yes!"

They're lying on Barnaby's bed, half-clothed and lazy with contentment, when sharp raps on the door echo through Barnaby's room. Barnaby thinks it's funny, the way Ivan tries to hide, and urges him to stop. "It's only Uncle Maverick," he assures his boyfriend. "I told him about you, and he wanted to say hello."

The man is stocky and unattractive, but Ivan's seen him on TV standing next to all the real Heroes. He's probably a great man, and Ivan bows low. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

There's a burning jealousy in those eyes when Ivan straightens up, and he flinches away from it as Maverick gives him a false smile and false greeting. He can't help but think that this man is the reason Barnaby is so cold, so pale.

Later that night, as Maverick makes them both delicious tea, Ivan can't help but think he overreacted. Mr. Maverick seems perfectly nice, after all. And Barnaby, his pretty cold pale Barnaby, obviously loves the man. "He knows about us," Barnaby informs him, squeezing his hand under the table a little too hard. "He says it's all right."

Barnaby drops first, collapsing headfirst into his food. Maverick chuckles, then advances on Ivan as he tries to blink the confusion out of his eyes. "You're not going to ruin everything," the old man informs him, eyes glowing. "I have big plans for that boy, and you're no part of it. He must really care for you, to have kept you from me for so long. Just be grateful you had this long with him."

Ivan would have been grateful, if he could have remembered those months.

The girls all love him, this strange, pale, cold boy. Edward nudges Ivan in the ribs as he passes, all golden hair and ramrod-straight posture. "Go talk to him."

"W-what?" Ivan stammers, somehow terrified to his core at the very idea. "I c-c-couldn't do that!"

Edward looks searchingly at him, then shrugs. "If you say so. I thought you guys were friends."

"Don't be stupid. You're my only friend." That thought is strong. No one else will ever love him. No one else will ever think he's worthy. It's important that he remembers that.

Barnaby turns, and just for a second Ivan has the wild thought that he's looking at Ivan behind his glasses. But no; seconds later, a swarm of girls descend upon him. Ivan's sure he enjoys the attention.

He walks home with Edward, fingers turning over and over a crinkled, faded swan in his pocket.


End file.
